Dinner that evening was a strained and subdued affair.
The hush in the room was unnatural, broken only by the clinking of silver and the occasional polite murmur from Bingley attempting, with diminishing returns, to maintain civility. The empty chair at the other end of the table—a conspicuous absence where Miss Bingley usually presided—cast a long shadow over the gathering. Mrs. Hurst sat in her place now, stiff-backed and tight-lipped, clearly uncomfortable with the position she had not asked to fill.
Bingley stabbed at his food a bit more forcefully than usual, then abruptly laid down his fork with a clatter. “I should like to know something, Louisa,” he said, glancing from Darcy to Mr. Hurst, then settling on Mrs. Hurst. “Why did you not inform me that Miss Bennet had remained at Netherfield? Or at the very least try to challenge Caroline’s orders?”
Mrs. Hurst blinked and set her wineglass down carefully. “I… I did not know she had stayed, Charles. Caroline told me she had offered Miss Bennet a change of clothing and a place to rest, but that she had refused both. I assumed she had returned home.”
Bingley’s brow darkened. “And you never thought to inquire further? To check on her?”
Mrs. Hurst flushed and fidgeted with her napkin. “There was no indication that Miss Bennet was unwell… I believed my sister.”
“Then I sincerely hope you are telling the truth,” Bingley said, his voice low and steely. “Because if I discover you had any part in this… if I learn you knew my guest was being mistreated in my own house and said nothing… you will no longer be welcome in any of my homes.”
The silence that followed was brittle and sharp.
From the other side of the table, Mr. Hurst finally looked up from his plate with something approaching attentiveness. “That will not be necessary,” he said firmly. “I shall ensure my wife behaves appropriately from now on.”
Mrs. Hurst’s lips parted in faint offense, but she said nothing. Her gaze flicked once—briefly—to Darcy. Then she looked away, lowered her eyes, and resumed her meal.
Darcy had said nothing throughout the exchange, content to observe. He had grown accustomed to Miss Bingley’s sly jabs and veiled maneuverings, but today’s confrontation had laid bare something far uglier beneath her varnished poise. He was not entirely surprised that Mrs. Hurst had gone along with it—there was weakness in her nature, more than malice—but he was nonetheless disappointed.
His own appetite was gone.
Instead, his mind wandered, drawn back to an unexpected moment from that morning. Elizabeth Bennet’s voice rang clearly in his memory—her calm statement about her family’s land, her knowledge of its origins, her composed defiance in the face of Miss Bingley’s cruelty.
The Bennets of Longbourn.
Land granted, she had said, to an ancestor who aided in quelling the Duke of Norfolk’s conspiracy against Queen Elizabeth.
Darcy’s fork paused midair.
He found himself oddly captivated by the idea. What role, precisely, had this ancient Bennet played in such treason? Had it been a gesture of conviction? Opportunism? Desperation? The Duke of Norfolk’s plot had been a dangerous one—Catholic in aim, traitorous by law. And Darcy could not help but wonder, with a strange sense of unease, whether a Darcy of that same era might have stood on the opposite side as Miss Bennet’s.
How ironic, then, that he—Fitzwilliam Darcy—now found himself intrigued by a descendant of that rebel house. Attracted, even, though he dared not examine that too closely. His family’s Catholic heritage had always placed them slightly apart, even now, when religious freedoms were at last beginning to expand. That year’s announcement—allowing Catholic soldiers to openly practice their faith—had been a small, long-overdue step in the right direction.
He was grateful for it. Grateful not to live in a time when belief alone could condemn a man—or a woman.
Still, he could not help but wonder what their ancestors would think, staring down at them through the long corridor of time. Star-crossed, perhaps, like the Montagues and Capulets. Would those long-dead Bennets and Darcys rejoice… or recoil?
He glanced up at the subdued room, the dull glint of candlelight on glass and porcelain, and found himself wishing he were elsewhere.
Perhaps in a drawing room where the conversation was quick and the eyes were green, and the fire crackled with more warmth than heat.
Chapter 15
Elizabeth arose early the following morning and spent the majority of it tending to her sister. The blue room was, as promised, far more comfortable than the chilly corner where Jane had been originally placed. A fire had been lit and maintained since the night before, and the bed linens were fresh and fragrant. Mrs. Nicholls had seen to everything with quiet efficiency, and Elizabeth had found herself touched—once again—by the thoughtfulness of the housekeeper.
Jane, though still weak, was improved. Her fever had abated slightly, her cough less wracking. Elizabeth helped her sit up to take some warm broth and coaxed a few spoonfuls past her lips. Jane smiled faintly and leaned back against the pillows, her golden hair fanned across the case like a silken halo.
“You are an angel,” Jane whispered. “I do not know how you always know exactly what to do.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “That description is more appropriate for yourself than for me.”
She reached for the cloth and gently dabbed her sister’s brow, smoothing a stray lock from her temple, and Jane closed her eyes wearily. The silence that fell between them was companionable.
A knock came at the door.
Elizabeth rose from Jane’s side, surprised. She opened it cautiously and found Mrs. Hurst, dressed more simply than usual and looking, to Elizabeth’s great astonishment, rather nervous.
